Death and the Magician
by Valravn
Summary: Gaiman's Death meets John Constantine outside a club


The alley way was in darkness, damp shadows lurking on the edges, and pools of strange amber liquid reflecting back the glow of the street-lights. The man in the shadows simply blurred into sight. Not a sudden appearance, but a slow transition, so you could almost believe that the slightly built man with the spiked blonde hair had been there all along and you simply hadn't noticed him. It was a simple trick, a trifle showy perhaps, and no-one there to impress except himself. He did it just because he could, and because John Constantine could never resist showing off, even though it cost him his soul.

The beige trenchcoat swirled lightly in the midnight breeze as he raised his hand to his mouth, Zippo lighter catching with a silvery _zing!_ as the yellow flame caught the filtered Silk Cut held between his thin lips. He closed the lighter with a snap, and returned it to his pocket, the tip of the cigarette glowing redly as he drew deep on it.

He allowed himself a grin in the darkness. Telling the First of the Fallen to perform an anatomically impossible act always gave him a warm glow of pleasure. Well, anatomically impossible for a human. Demons and Angels could get up to all kinds of tricks. How many Angels can shag on the head of a pin...

The sound of feet running helter skelter through the night caused him to draw the shadows around himself again, even the red glow of the cigarette disappearing. Two men ran through the alley, splashing recklessly through the puddles, before sliding to a stop outside the rear entrance to an old, disused nightclub. In the darkness, Constantine watched with lazy curiosity.

The slightly built, curly haired man crouched, breathing heavily as he drew his Browning from his shoulder with a smooth left handed motion, transferring the gun easily to his right hand. He listened carefully at the door. Opposite him, the man with black hair and the midnight-blue eyes of a killer nodded once. Without a word, the other man pushed the door open and slid through the narrow gap silently, the black haired man following him with the same lethal, predatory movements.

Curiouser and curiouser, Constantine thought. His own natural sneakiness was augmented by his magick, but he could certainly appreciate the unadulterated talents of others. The two men were dangerous. Even a man used to facing down demons with nothing more than a packet of Silk Cut and a Zippo lighter could appreciate that.

He was about to turn away back into the night when another movement caught his attention. A different movement. Turning again to the nightclub's door, he saw a woman step from the shadows. Well, he corrected himself, she _looked_ like a woman. A small, slightly built Goth girl, with long black hair, dressed all in black, with a large silver Ankh around her throat. She stared at him with dark eyes until he stepped out of the shadows himself, drawing deep on his cigarette with easy nonchalance.

"Evenin'," he said with a grin, only a hint of his old Liverpool accent tingeing his voice.

She smiled prettily. "John Constantine. What brings you out this cold evening?"

He shrugged. "Demons. Angels. Asmodeus. Raphael. Bit of a run in with the Morningstar. Y'know. The usual." Another drag on the cigarette as he regarded her with lazy suspicion. "You come for one of them two blokes? Or both of 'em?"

She looked askance, donning a mischievous expression. "What's it to you, magician?"

He shrugged again. Something else he was good at. Shrugging, and walking away. "Nothing. Curious is all."

"Curiosity kills more than cats, John Constantine."

"Killed a few cats in my time as well," he admitted without apology. He gave her an appraising look. He was in a good mood, he realised. A rare occurrence, but then, sticking two fingers up to Heaven and Hell always left him feeling reckless and good-natured. "Tell you what, I'll play you a game for 'em."

"Which one?

"Either. Both. I don't mind. Play the game, and if I win, you walk away empty handed." He threw his cigarette into a nearby puddle, hearing it hiss as it died. "Doesn't matter to you; you've got all the patience in the world."

She watched with a look of amused patience as he took another cigarette from the packet and lit it with a flourish.

"What do you have to bet with, Constantine?" She looked through him, her dark eyes seeing the hole where his soul had once been. A long time ago. Before Newcastle.

He grinned at her. John Constantine could be charming when the mood took him, and Death allowed him to charm her.

"Very well, Constantine. We'll play just for the fun of it."

His grin widened and he flicked the half smoked cigarette into the darkness. "Fantastic," he said. "But I'd better warn you – I hate chess."

She wrinkled her nose and laughed. "Me too. I can never tell bishops from horses."

"Just try gelding one and see what happens."

She giggled, and Constantine smiled again. Death was the only one of Endless he could be bothered with. Desire was a bitch and a bastard combined; Destiny was a close-mouthed depressing sod; Delirium just gave him a headache; Despair was – well – what she was was herself and nothing more; Dream was a maudlin romantic in desperate need of consumption just to finish the image; and Destruction was off playing artist somewhere in Greece, last he'd heard. All in all, the ultimate dysfunctional family of Immortals. Only Death had anything approaching a sense of humour. She was the closest thing to human for any of them.

"Simply draw on a pack of cards," he said when she had stopped laughing. "Highest wins."

He produced a pack of cards from the air, giving her a pained look as she clapped in appreciation of the trick.

"Ladies first."

She reached out with a gloved hand and split the pack, a look of surprise of her face as the Death card was revealed.

Typical, Constantine thought. Just typical.

He reached out with one hand. "There is nothing up my sleeve," he intoned in mock severity. Without further preamble, he parted the remaining deck.

The Lovers.

Her dark eyes met his, and he wondered for a split second what he was doing playing with Death.

"Amor Vincit Omnia," he said, hiding his nervousness.

She quirked her head to one side. "Are you suggesting they're lovers?"

He shrugged. "Who cares?"

A gunshot rang out, followed by a flurry of other bullets. A hoarse voice screamed out once, breaking with emotion.

With the same flourish he had used to produce the pack of cards, Death reached out and plucked a golden hourglass from the air. The sand had stopped moving. Constantine tried to read the name printed along the bottom, but could only make out the second letter 'O' and last letter 'E'.

Despite the cold, Constantine felt sweat trickling down his spine. He was playing with the lives of strangers again. Something he didn't even think twice about these days.

He nodded towards the nightclub, where shouts and gunfire was starting to give way to quiet again. "They follow each other pretty close. Greater love hath no man, an' all that." The dark eyes gave nothing away. He licked his lips. "Which one was it?"

She met his gaze, and gave a sudden bright smile. The sand in the hourglass started to move again. "Doesn't matter now, does it?"

Constantine released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding as the hourglass disappeared again. Without warning, she reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek, wandering away down the alleyway before he could recover from his shock.

"See you, John," she said.

He grinned again, reaching for another cigarette. "You see everyone eventually," he called back.

But he waited in the shadows until the two men re-appeared. This time, they were pushing two other men in front of them, both handcuffed and bleeding. They grinned at each other, and neither one saw the blonde man in the trenchcoat watch as they left the alleyway, the sound of sirens approaching.

Nah, maybe not lovers, he thought as he watched them go. But you could see where people would get that idea.


End file.
